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104 Women in Congress. Does It Matter?

Joni Ernst rode into the Senate on the strength of TV ads that touted the Iowa Republican as a gun-toting “mom, farm girl and lieutenant colonel” with “more than just lipstick in her purse” who was “gonna unload” on Obamacare.

Mia Love, the former mayor of Saratoga Springs, Utah, and the first African-American Republican woman ever elected to the U.S. House of Representatives, told supporters she was coming to Washington to be “kind of a nightmare for the Democratic Party.”

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Democrat Gwen Graham—newly elected to represent Florida’s 2nd Congressional District— campaigned on the promise she would oppose her own party leader, Nancy Pelosi, in her bid to keep guiding Democrats in the House.

Say hello to the women of the 114th Congress. Say goodbye to your illusions of a kinder, gentler sisterhood in government.

The combined number of women in the U.S. House and Senate passed the 100 mark for the first time in November. And yet there was little cheer. Rutgers University’s Center for American Women and Politics headlined its election analysis, “When 100 isn’t a passing grade.” Pelosi, in a less-than-jubilant mood at her weekly news conference, detoured from her usual “when women succeed, America succeeds” message to register the uncharacteristically churlish complaint that, despite having been the first female speaker of the House, she had never made it to the cover of Time magazine.

Truth be told, there wasn’t all that much to celebrate, for a number of reasons. On November 3, there were 99 voting female members of Congress; starting this year, there will be 104—a pretty paltry gain. Women candidates picked up 14 new seats in Congress overall—the same as in 2010 but a far less impressive showing than in 2012, when they won 24 new seats, or in 1992’s “Year of the Woman,” when they added a memorable 28. In fact, the five seats gained by women in 2014 were more than offset by the loss of a lot of actual female power. As part of the Republican takeover, Democratic women in the Senate were forced out of their positions at the helm of six out of 16 standing committees, and only a single Republican woman is expected to replace them as a committee chair, Senator Lisa Murkowski of Alaska, on the Energy and Natural Resources Committee. In the House, only one of 21 standing committee chairmanships will be held by a woman—Michigan’s Candice Miller, who will continue to run the Committee on House Administration, where she will oversee such vital matters as reminding House members that they are allowed the “incidental use” of holiday greetings like “Merry Christmas.” Not exactly an overwhelming display of woman-power.

At left, Senator Elizabeth Warren at the Capitol in November, after being tapped for a Democratic leadership post. At right, Republican Senator-elect Joni Ernst during a September campaign stop in Davenport, Iowa. | Evan Vucci/Associated Press; Daniel Acker/Bloomberg via Getty Images

The existential malaise experienced by advocates of women’s increased political participation isn’t simply pegged to the low female numbers, however. It arises from unsettling questions about what it means, and whether it makes any difference, to be a female lawmaker in a time of hyperpartisanship.

Female politicians in America have long been viewed—and sold to voters (and donors)—as distinctly different from men, more grounded and tuned in to the real-life health and welfare needs of women, children and families; more collaborative and cooperative, “much less about ego and much more about problem-solving,” as Senator Debbie Stabenow of Michigan has put it. Women of color in particular, and black women especially, were known as advocates for a wide range of marginalized communities.

The moderates on both sides are out. Elizabeth Warren is a progressive icon. You’re not going to see her reaching across the aisle to Joni Ernst.”

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But with women like Ernst (“I grew up castrating hogs on an Iowa farm”) coming to Washington to “make ’em squeal,” those arguments are being severely challenged. Largely gone are the moderates—Blanche Lincoln of Arkansas, Kay Bailey Hutchison of Texas, Olympia Snowe of Maine, Connie Morella of Maryland—whose example created the image of female politicians as uniquely able to reach across the bipartisan divide back in the 1980s and 1990s. Shelley Moore Capito, the first woman elected to the U.S. Senate from West Virginia and generally regarded as a moderate, may well serve as a co-captain of the bipartisan congressional women’s softball team, but her desire to ban abortions after 20 weeks is not going to help her build substantial working relationships with many Democrats.

Let’s be clear: Republicans have not cornered the market on partisan pit bulls and ideological purists. “The moderates on both sides are out,” says Michele Swers, an associate professor of American government at Georgetown University. “Elizabeth Warren [the Democratic senator from Massachusetts] is a progressive icon. You’re not going to see her reaching across the aisle to Joni Ernst.”